


Samples - a Sherlock Fanfic

by DearSherlock



Series: Sherlock - Adriane Woodford [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coercion, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Mind Screw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSherlock/pseuds/DearSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sighs. “Didn’t it occur to you that the range of emotions that they looked at in all those studies was a bit limited? Just stress, and pain.”<br/>“Oh,” I say. Now I’m getting worried. I had hyped myself up for stress and pain. I can see this could turn into a completely different experiment than I expected. I’m not sure I am ready for emotional rollercoaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samples - a Sherlock Fanfic

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

Things don’t work out with Phil. We see each other for several months, and then a few weeks after Sherlock’s visit he invites me to dinner one evening and gives me the I-don’t-think-this-going-anywhere-but-we-can-just-be-good-friends spiel. I am surprised he has lasted as long as he has, and I try not to be too upset about it. He was, after all, never my type, or so I keep telling myself.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, makes sure that I am almost constantly reminded of my loyalties. Not a week goes by where I am not called into Baker Street at a moment’s notice to assist in one experiment or another. The range of investigations is wide and varied, and it isn’t always clear to me whether the experiments are linked to cases. Sometimes he talks about it, mostly he doesn’t. Sometimes he doesn’t speak more than ten words during the entire evening.  
  
He is invariably formal and businesslike and makes no attempt at any polite conversation. I am much more careful around him after what happened at my flat and don’t ask what is going on. He always makes sure the experiments are finished at a sociable time so there is never an excuse for me to stay over. All in all, I can not avoid the feeling that I am on some kind of probation.  
  
I try to ignore the feeling until one evening John comes over and asks about it. “Was it something you said? He hasn’t properly spoken to you for weeks, Adri.”  
  
He’s looking concerned, as usual. I am in the middle of an experiment measuring the elasticity of skin on different parts of the body, apparently. I’m down to my smalls and Sherlock has suspended a large number of small weights all over my body. John has already said that I look like a Christmas tree and I swear I will never look at a bulldog clip the same way again.  
  
It is late, for a change, as Sherlock’s text only came in way after dinner. I am still annoyed about it as it meant cancelling a night out with the girls at very short notice, but I haven’t said anything.  
  
Sherlock has gone off to the kitchen or his bedroom to get something. I am in considerable pain and could do with putting my arms down, so I welcome the distraction of talking to John. I’m not sure what to tell him, but I would welcome some advice.  
  
“I did something stupid, months ago,” I say. “I… paid for it. And I’ve apologised more times than I care to count. I don’t know what else to do.”  
  
He’s looking more concerned now. “Can I ask what he did?” he says.  
  
I really don’t want to go there, so I just say, “I’d rather you didn’t”. When he just stares at me I add, “It was nothing permanent.”  
  
John looks at me a moment longer, obviously wanting to ask more. Thankfully he decides against it. “Talk to him, Adri. He can’t treat you like this. If you don’t, I will.”  
  
I nod. It was getting to a point where even I was thinking the same. When Sherlock comes back into the room John gets his jacket and says, “I’m going out for a bit. See you later.”  
  
He leaves, and the flat goes silent. Sherlock has brought a pair of callipers and a notebook and is taking measurements. I am trying to ignore his physical closeness while I pick up a bit of courage. When he gets to the front of me I say, “Sherlock.”  
  
It takes him a moment to break his concentration, then he straightens up and looks at me, slightly annoyed.  
  
“Am I on probation?” I ask.  
  
“Yes,” he says, and carries on with his measurements. I don’t know what to say for a second. He’s like a brick wall.  
  
“How long for?” I ask after a while.  
  
“Eight weeks so far,” he answers, not even looking up. “You are remarkably tolerant.”  
  
 _Not what I meant_ , I think, and I firmly believe he knew that. He’s not letting me anywhere near him. I decide to rephrase the question.  
  
“When will it finish?”  
  
He stands up again and looks at me.  
  
“When I have proof that I can trust you.”  
  
It hurts. I thought we were done with this. “I apologised,” I say. “More times than I can remember.”  
  
“Yes,” he answers, “and I have accepted your apology. I am not angry with you.”  
  
I’m at a loss. I’m not sure what he wants from me. “I gave you my word that it won’t happen again. That should count for something.”  
  
“Hm,” he says, and carries on with his work.  
  
I’m getting cross now. He’s not taking me on, but I don’t want to be treated like this for months and months until he feels that I have proven myself in some way.  
  
"Sherlock, I might never get into a situation like that again. I really hope I won’t. Can’t you rely on a solemn promise? I can repeat it if you want.”  
  
“No, that won’t be necessary,” he says. He’s still not looking at me, just taking measurements, as if the conversation is irrelevant.  
  
“If you need proof you could always organise for me to get kidnapped and tortured yourself. I’m sure there are people in your homeless network that would oblige,” I say after stewing for a bit. I don’t want to sound bitter, but I am really getting quite angry now. The fact that my arms are slowly going numb isn’t helping.  
  
“The thought had occurred,” he says, distractedly.  
  
Something snaps in my head. Owned or not, I refuse to be treated like this. I shout, “Listen to me, Sherlock. I have done everything you have asked of me in the last two months. Some of it has been at ridiculously short notice and during working hours. My boss is starting to ask questions about my priorities and if I carry on like this for long enough I’ll be on the street looking for another job. I am getting a reputation for being completely unreliable with my friends. Oh, and I have just been dumped by the only nice bloke to ever take an interest in me, in no small part due to my involvement with you. AND I AM NOT COMPLAINING. But don’t you _fucking_ dare to question my commitment.”  
  
The room goes awfully quiet. _That’s it_ , I think, _he’s going to throw me out_. Very slowly, Sherlock straightens up, puts the notebook and callipers away and turns to look at me. I meet his gaze, trying not to flinch. He studies me for a moment, face expressionless.  
  
“Good. Finally.”  
  
My confusion must be obvious as he allows himself a brief smile. “Oh come on, Adriane. You don’t want to get too deferential,” he says.  
  
“I… What.” I manage.  
  
He comes over and briefly touches the silver chain around my neck. “That,” he says, “does not mean you have to become a doormat. You don’t need to tiptoe around me, Adriane. It would be dull. Besides, I need you to be able to speak your mind.”  
  
 _Eight weeks_ , I think. I wonder how long he would have let it go on for.  
  
“I wouldn’t have let you lose your job over it,” he says as he starts to take the clips off. “Done.” He looks at me with a glint in his eye and adds, “Actually, we were done forty minutes ago but you were having far too much fun playing the martyr.”  
  
I look at him, speechless, and he gives me an innocent smile. I scowl, then take off all the remaining clips that I can reach, wait for him to finish on my back, and say, “I am having a bath. If you don’t mind.”  
  
I lock the door behind me, and make sure I take forever.   
  


\-----oooOooo-----

  
  
When I come back into the lounge John has returned. He gives me a questioning look ands says, “OK?”  
  
I nod and say yes. From the corner, behind a newspaper, Sherlock says, “You can stop worrying, John. Adriane has read me the riot act. I shall better my behaviour.”  
  
John looks at me with some disbelief. I just shrug. I’m not going to tell him what really happened. He recovers the situation by saying, “Beer?”  
  
After eight weeks of going home as soon as we have finished it feels a bit strange to be asked to stay a while. I accept, but I feel awkward, out of place. I find a spot on he sofa, keeping a respectable distance from John. I’m not sure what to say. The last time I spoke to him properly we were in bed together.  
  
He winks, and says, “Nice to have you back, Adriane.”  
  
I should have known better than to worry. John is charming as usual, and quickly manages to turn my awkwardness around. We talk work, and John’s blog, and the cases he is currently writing up. Sherlock is ignoring us but in a relaxed, self-absorbed way. I remember how much I used to feel at home here. It would be nice to think things could get back to that.  
  
At about eleven, Sherlock gets up.  
  
“Staying?”  
  
He seems quite serious. I really don’t know what to say.  
  
“Ehm.” I look at them both. John, trying not to look hopeful. Sherlock, crushingly indifferent. The situation is impossible and I suddenly feel more awkward than ever. There is only one solution.  
  
“OK. But I’ll take the sofa.”  
  
At about two o’ clock I am still staring at the ceiling. It was nice of John to get me the blankets, and even nicer not to argue too much about this, but I just cannot sleep. I feel I have been here for hours. On reflection, I have.  
  
“You’re not proving anything, you know,” Sherlock’s voice suddenly comes from the doorway. I look across, surprised, wondering briefly how long he’s been watching me. I am too tired to care too much by now.  
  
“Not proving a point,” I say. “Just didn’t know what else to do.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Don’t want to impose on you, don’t want to end up hurting John,” I say.  
  
He rolls his eyes. “I sleep perfectly well when you are in the bed, and I am sure that John is quite familiar with the idea of casual sex, Adriane. The choice was yours, and neither of us would have minded. As I said, you are not proving anything.”  
  
He comes over and drags the blankets off me. “And now, it seems, the choice is mine. Come to bed.”  
  
I get up, a bit self-conscious. I am aware I am frowning at him, wondering why on Earth he is doing this, and what he is going to do. He looks at me with some amusement.  
  
“I am not going to do _anything_ , Adriane. But I would never live it down if I left you on the sofa all night. John has been on my case enough on your behalf in the last few weeks.”  
  
I follow him. To my complete surprise I sleep like a brick.   
  


\-----oooOooo-----

  
  
After that things go back to relatively normal, or as normal as they are ever going to get around Sherlock and John. I still get called in regularly, but not generally during working hours. Sometimes I even get a couple of hours’ notice.  
  
Sherlock’s experiments are as always quirky and sometimes elaborate. The investigation on the recovery times of eyesight after exposure to different light levels leaves me with a splitting headache for days. Another day he spends an entire afternoon attempting to stain my skin with a large variety of food, drink and household products. I end up looking like I have some kind of skin disease and come out in an itchy rash in several places, most of them inaccessible. Some of the stains take weeks to come out.  
  
Worse still is Sherlock’s experiment on the effect of exposure to high levels of caffeine. I don’t know how he found out that I had booked two weeks’ leave, but I spend every afternoon being dosed up and doing reaction and concentration tests, until I am reduced to an insomniac, hyperactive nervous wreck and John calls an end to it after ten days. Even so, Sherlock calls me in every afternoon for the rest of my holiday to study the after-effects. As holidays go, it’s not the best one I’ve had.  
  
After that I am left to my own devices for a few weeks. I’m wondering if John told Sherlock to back off, or whether something else is keeping them occupied. I have begun to notice Sherlock’s name in the papers every so often, as the cases he takes on are becoming more and more high profile. I guess that was only a matter of time, although it makes me wonder how he can hope to work covertly if the tabloids are systematically blowing his cover.  
  
I return home one Tuesday evening to find a package waiting for me. Inside are a number of scientific papers, and a hand-written note.  
  
“Your reading for the week. Friday, 20:30. You will be staying. SH.”  
  
I wonder what on Earth he means until I read the paper titles. “Changes in the protein composition of human saliva associated with model psychological and emotional stress”; “Salivary composition, gender and psychosocial stress”; “Noninvasive biochemical monitoring of physiological stress by Fourier transform infrared saliva spectroscopy”. There are a few more, all on the same subject. I can guess where this is going.  
  
As I knock on the door of 221B Baker Street on Friday, I can’t help feeling nervous. The idea of Sherlock doing an experiment that is directly aimed at causing me psychological and emotional stress is not one I relish. The effect he has on me is bad enough when he’s not even trying.  
  
Mrs Hudson opens the door. “Oh, hello Adriane, dear. Visiting again?”  
  
She takes me upstairs. John is seated at the desk and says hello. Sherlock is in the kitchen, clearing the table. He is wearing one of his customary sharp suits, with a gorgeous dark purple shirt that looks just slightly tight. I briefly wonder why he dresses like that if he doesn’t want people to hit on him, but then I decide that he’d probably still look elegant wearing a bin bag.  
  
“Really, boys, you should be letting your own visitors in. I’m not the caretaker,” Mrs Hudson says as she ushers me in.  
  
Sherlock ignores her, and John makes an apologetic noise. Mrs Hudson leaves, and as soon as she is gone Sherlock is over to me.  
  
“You’ve done your reading.”  
  
I say yes, and try not to stare at him.  
  
“What did you think?”  
  
“Ehm,” I say. I didn’t expect to be asked my professional opinion. “I can see how getting someone’s stress level from their saliva could be useful to you. The analyses are simple, as long as you have got access to the right equipment.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
I think about it a moment.  
  
“I guess if you were testing a dead person you’d have to be sure they hadn’t been dead for too long. Everything would start to break down, wouldn’t it?”  
  
“Excellent. Any flaws in the papers?”  
  
I’m beginning to wonder what he’s driving at. I thought they were all pretty sound pieces of work.  
  
“No, not that I could see.”  
  
He sighs. “Didn’t it occur to you that the range of emotions that they all studied was a bit limited? Just stress, and pain.”  
  
“Oh,” I say. Now I’m getting worried. I had hyped myself up for stress and pain. I can see this could turn into a completely different experiment than I expected. I’m not sure I am ready for emotional rollercoaster. I’m starting to wonder about the tight shirt, though. Maybe there was a reason to that after all.  
  
Sherlock is already way ahead. “So. Simple process today. We are going to cover as wide a range of human emotions as is achievable during the course of a few hours. You tell me how you feel, I take a sample, we go onto the next thing.” He has picked up a digital pipette and a small sample bottle. “John,” he says, looking at me, “Say something to make Adriane happy.”  
  
I look at John, who has been listening to the conversation. He is looking highly amused. Winking at me he says, “Why?”  
  
Sherlock just frowns at him.  
  
“You’re good at that sort of thing.”  
  
“I’m sure you could think of something yourself,” John replies, pretending to go back to his laptop. I am trying not to grin. Sherlock is looking a bit lost.  
  
“John, stop winding me up. It’s a simple enough request.”  
  
With a bit of a show John closes his laptop and walks over to me. He looks at me, smiling, then gives me a kiss on the cheek. “You look lovely.”  
  
I can’t help it, it makes me laugh. He’s such a charmer.  
  
“See, it’s not that hard,” he says to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock just gives him a bemused look, then gets me to open my mouth and takes a sample. Meanwhile, John is getting his coat on.  
  
“I’ll leave you two crazy kids to get on with it. Don’t break her, Sherlock. Have fun, Adriane.”  
  
John leaves. Sherlock looks at me.  
  
“If I had done that, would your reaction have been the same?”  
  
“Unfortunately I would have probably wondered what you were after,” I say.  
  
He thinks about it a moment. “Hm.” Then he snaps back to business. “And now you are feeling…?”  
  
It’s odd having him ask what I feel like. God only knows what he has planned for tonight. I feel vulnerable with John gone, leaving Sherlock free rein to do whatever he wants. “Worried,” I say, truthfully.  
  
“On a scale from one to ten?”  
  
 _God_ , I think, _how did I ever agree to this_. “About six”, I say.  
  
“Fine. Any other emotions?”  
  
I’m wondering if it would sabotage the experiment completely if I threw out everything I am feeling. But then he has made it very clear on several occasions that he wants me to be honest. “Apprehension. The usual disbelief. Sexual frustration. All the submissive stuff.”  
  
He’s fixing me with his stare now, eyes slightly narrowed. “There is no need to be flippant, Adriane.”  
  
“I wasn’t. It’s all there.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow, then writes ‘Worry. 6’ on the label of the bottle, and takes another sample. “We’ll stick with the main ones.”  
  
He seems to think about something. “Before you get your hopes up, Adriane, we won’t be investigating any sexual emotions tonight. I do have my limits.”  
  
I have to be honest. When he said ‘full range of human emotions’ I thought I might be in with a chance, but I guess that was silly. I try to hide my disappointment, but Sherlock is already there with another bottle. He gives me a questioning glance as he takes a sample.  
  
“Disappointed,” I say.  
  
“Intensity?”  
  
I’m not sure I want to answer this. He really doesn’t need to have his ego boosted any further. “Five,” I say.  
  
There is no getting away from that stare. I don’t know why he even asked, because he obviously already knows what the answer should have been. “Fine,” I say. “Eight.” Even from where I am standing I can see him write down a nine.  
  
He comes back to me after putting the bottle away. “While we are covering bad news,” he says, “I have some more. Tonight is the last time I am inviting you over. I think we have exhausted the range of possibilities with you as a test subject. I don’t want you to take it personally.”  
  
I feel like I have been slapped. I didn’t see this coming at all. I look at him to see if it is some kind of trick, but he is quite clearly deadly serious. He unclasps the silver chain from my neck and puts it in his pocket. “You won’t need that anymore.”  
  
He lets it sink in for a moment, as I am trying to control my emotions.  
  
“Come on, Adriane. You didn’t think this was going to go on forever, did you? You’ve had a reasonable run. I didn’t think you were going to last more than a couple of sessions.” He’s being totally off-hand about it. It makes it worse.  
  
He looks at me closely a second, then gives me a look of mock surprise. “Oh, you thought I might have formed some kind of _emotional attachment_.” He sounds scathing. “Really. You flatter yourself beyond belief. I mean, look at you. You’re damaged, overly emotional, needy, and have no discernible intelligence or style. You can’t be serious.” The disdain is open, and it hurts, badly.  
  
I nearly don’t open my mouth when he comes to take another sample. “Tell me how you feel.”  
  
I struggle to hold back the tears when I say, “Upset.”  
  
“How upset?”  
  
“Very.” I am not going to give him a number, and I don’t try to see what he writes down. I’m not seeing all that clearly anyway at the moment, tears getting in the way. I stare at the floor.  
  
Suddenly his hand is under my chin, lifting my face up, holding it steady. Before I know what is happening he has taken a sample of my tears from the corner of my eye.  
  
“Might as well, while I am at it. Surprisingly telling, the chemical composition of tears. Just not as easy to come by,” he says as he walks off to label another bottle. I don’t understand how he can be so heartless about this.  
  
I go to get my coat and make for the door.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
“Home. You don’t want me here.”  
  
“We’re not finished yet.”  
  
I couldn’t care less. As I push the door handle down his hand is on my shoulder and I am being turned around gently.  
  
Sherlock stands in front of me, studying me a moment. “You also are amazingly naïve sometimes, Adriane,” he says. “But then, it makes it so much easier to do these experiments.”  
  
I look at him, wondering what he means. He takes the chain out of his pocket and runs it through his fingers. “I don’t make commitments lightly, and you should realise that,” he says quietly. “What that means is that once I make them, I do not let them go lightly either.”  
  
He puts the chain back around my neck and fastens it. “Besides, you are still useful to me.”  
  
The feeling of relief is immense. At the same time, I can’t believe I was that easily manipulated. He’s there again, pipette in hand, while I am trying to get a grip on myself.  
  
“And you are feeling…?”  
  
“Relieved. Stupid.”  
  
“In equal measure?”  
  
“No. More relieved. You’re very convincing.”  
  
He smiles to himself as he turns to put the bottle away, then comes back waving the pipette vaguely at my eyes. “Allow me.”  
  
I let him take the sample, then wipe my eyes.  
  
“Rate your relief.”  
  
“About nine.”  
  
“Out of interest, rate your stupidity.”  
  
“What? No.”  
  
“Adriane, I am serious.”  
  
I look at him, cross now. “There is no need to rub it in, Sherlock.” I’m angry enough with myself already for letting him get to me so easily.  
  
“Why not? You said it yourself. I am just following the argument to its logical conclusion.”  
  
“Fine,” I say. “Four.”  
  
He looks at me with a look of surprise. “Four?” He sounds derisive. “You might want to rethink that.”  
  
I am close to telling him to stick it somewhere now. “Why don’t you rate it yourself then, since you seem to already have made your mind up.”  
  
“No,” he says, “You should be honest with yourself, Adriane. Try again. Aim for a more realistic number this time.” The condescension in his voice is palpable. All it does is make me angrier.  
  
“No.” If I say anything else I will be swearing.  
  
He comes over and takes a saliva sample. “Now rate your anger.”  
  
I stare at him as the whole thing comes together. “Oh.” _Had, again_ , I think. “Seven.”  
  
He smiles. “I’m clearly not trying hard enough.”  
  
“It’s not funny.”  
  
He doesn’t answer that, but walks to the kitchen with the handful of sample bottles he has collected. As he puts them on the table I say, “Nine.”  
  
He gives me an odd look across the room. “Nine what?”  
  
“Stupidity. I should know better by now.”  
  
“Maybe,” he says, non-committal, studying the samples. “In my room.”  
  
The simple statement is enough to fill me with apprehension. It’s clear he is just following a set plan, very cleverly, and so far I have fallen for it all the way. He seems to find it so easy to manipulate me, doing it without any qualms, and I am getting very worried about what’s in store next. I find myself rooted to the spot.  
  
When I don’t move immediately he stands up and gives me a quizzical glance. “I’m waiting, Adriane.”  
  
I force myself to walk past him through the kitchen, to his room. I don’t get past the door, however. On the bed, neatly laid out, are his riding crop and the Wartenberg wheel. I come to a dead stop, feeling a sudden overwhelming urge to run away.  
  
“Tell me how you feel.”  
  
I jump, and make an uncontrolled terrified noise. He’s standing so close behind me he’s nearly touching me. He puts his hands on my upper arms so I can’t turn round. “Scared,” I say. “Nine.”  
  
“Good,” he says, giving me a little push. I walk inside, unwillingly, and let him take a sample. He’s observing me, face blank, while I try to fight back the panic. Then he says, “Actually, we’ll leave those a moment. I have something that I would like to try.” He takes a syringe out of his pocket and looks at it. It’s filled with a clear liquid. “Sit down.”  
  
I near-stumble onto the only chair in the room, while he goes back to the kitchen and gets another one. He puts it down in front of me and sits down, then shows me the syringe.  
  
“You gave me the idea for this after what happened to you at Jim Moriarty’s place. I’ve been wondering what he drug was that that surgeon used, and I think I have worked it out. Now seems as good a time as any to test it. You can tell me if the effects are the same.”  
  
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up now, and I am breaking out in a cold sweat. Sherlock holds out his hand, expecting me to give him mine, but I am flatly refusing, hugging my arm as close to me as I possibly can. “No.”  
  
He sits back and looks at me a moment. “Adriane, give me your arm. You are not going to make this any easier on yourself.”  
  
I remember the pain. I nearly fainted at the time. I have absolutely no wish to revisit the experience. Terror is slowly taking over. “No, Sherlock. I am not doing this.”  
  
In the middle of this he gets me to open my mouth and takes a sample. “Rate your fear.”  
  
“Ten,” I say. “I’m not letting you do this.”  
  
He sits back again, and sighs. “Adriane, I can think of thirty-two ways of restraining you that would allow me full access to your arm, of which thirty are painful. One would incapacitate you completely for at least half an hour. It’s up to you.”  
  
I close my eyes, and think, _fuck_. I am near panic and his threat is only adding to it. There is no getting away from this. I swallow hard and extend my arm, eyes still closed. My perception of the world is shrinking rapidly, and I try to focus on slowing my breathing down. I am aware that I am beginning to cry as I feel him disinfecting my wrist, then the point of the needle on my arm. I prepare for agony, and retreat.  
  
“Adriane, open your mouth.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is coming from some way off and it takes me a moment to refocus. I open my mouth almost automatically, trying to work out what happened, then open my eyes. He’s just sitting on the chair, observing me. I can’t see the syringe anywhere. My wrist feels normal.  
  
“I was never going to do that, Adriane. It was saline, anyway.”  
  
For a second my relief is greater than my outrage. Then I flip.  
  
I launch myself at him, swearing, fully intending to do damage. I’m not sure what happens next, but he catches my arms and does something with my chest and my legs and I find myself flying through the air, landing in an inelegant heap on the bed, face forward. Before I have time to recover he is on top of me, forcing me into some kind of arm lock. I am effectively immobilised.  
  
“Don’t,” he says. There is a hint of amusement in his voice which only serves to fuel my anger.  
  
I’m not sure how he is holding onto me but he still manages to produce the pipette. I am far too angry to comply and I clench my mouth tightly shut. He just increases the pressure on my shoulder a little. It is agony, and I struggle to suppress a scream.  
  
“I will let you go if you open your mouth.”  
  
I give in. It’s not like I was proving anything, or getting anywhere. When he has taken the sample he lets me go. I sit up and rub my arm. I’m still livid.  
  
“I might have to put that down as an 11,” he says, labelling the bottle. “That was a much better sample for anger.” If he was trying to be funny it isn’t working. I scowl at him, too angry for words for the moment.  
  
“Don’t ever _fucking_ do anything like that to me again,” I finally manage.  
  
He comes and sits next to me on the bed. “Too much?” He is looking at me seriously, a bit worried maybe. _That makes a change_ , I think. My anger subsides a little.  
  
“Sherlock, I still have flashbacks. I get nightmares. It was _bad_.”  
  
We sit quietly for a while, me slowly calming down, Sherlock just watching me. After a while he says, “The people I see, the victims, mostly spend their last moments terrified, or in agony, or both. Very few of them don’t know that they are going to die. Understanding what they were feeling could help me make the distinction between murder and accidental death. Unfortunately that required a sample for abject terror. I am sorry if I upset you.”  
  
I look at him, taking in what he said. “I think abject terror was always going to upset me, Sherlock.” He smiles briefly. I don’t feel too bad anymore.  
  
“It’s a fascinating thing you do, the withdrawing,” he says. “Can you do it at will, or does it require a stressful situation?”  
  
“I can’t really control it,” I answer, after thinking for a minute. “It just happens when things get too much. It’s easy then. I’ve never been able to do it just because I felt like it.”  
  
I pick up the riding crop that has fallen on the floor and pass it to him. He takes it, looking a little surprised. “We’ve done abject terror,” I say, “might as well get on with the pain thing.”  
  
He’s really studying me now, as if I’ve done something completely unexpected. “You would accept me taking a riding crop to you,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “After what just happened.” It’s half statement, half question.  
  
I shrug. “It’s not like we were going to skip it, is it,” I say. “And as you have said before, I don’t find it all that hard to deal with pain.”  
  
He looks at me longer than I think is necessary. I’m getting self-conscious again, and am beginning to wonder if that’s what he is aiming at. “Fine,” he says finally. “Strip.”  
  
I strip, and Sherlock watches, riding crop across his knees. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but in a resigned kind of way. He’s seen all of me before, and it’s not like he takes an interest, at least not in a sexual sense. In any case, the stuff he has said about me this evening is all too close to the surface. After all the emotions of the last half hour or so I am feeling a bit numb. When I am done I wait for him to tell me what to do next.  
  
He stands up and comes over, stopping right in front of me, too close. He lifts up the riding crop, waving it very close to my face. I stare at it, warily, wondering what he is getting at. He taps me lightly on the cheek with it.  
  
“There are a number of ways to tell whether somebody has died in pain,” he says. “All of which I have studied in detail. I never meant to use this, as I don’t need a sample. The riding crop and the wheel were placed on the bed merely for effect.”  
  
Now I feel a bit silly. “Oh,” I say. Really I should stop trying to second-guess him. “Then what were you going to do next?” I ask.  
  
“This,” he says, and he leans over and kisses me.  
  
I’m that surprised I don’t even react. He pulls away and I let him take a sample while I try to sort out my feelings. He smiles as he says, “Rate your surprise.”  
  
“What,” I say, “Oh. Ten.” I really didn’t think he would ever do that. I am suddenly aware that once again I have no idea what is going on, but this time I am naked.  
  
He puts the riding crop away, takes his jacket off and comes back to me. Once again he is too close, making me acutely aware of his physical presence and the fact he looks gorgeous. He’s just watching me, almost touching but not quite, and I am now finding it very hard not to get aroused.  
  
“Sherlock,” I say, “What are you doing.”  
  
He smiles and runs his hand lightly down my front. “I thought it would be fairly obvious, even to you.”  
  
He’s setting off fireworks. After everything that he has done tonight I am not sure how I feel about this. “You said you weren’t going to... Oh.”  
  
He just raises an eyebrow.  
  
“You needed a sample for disappointment.”  
  
“Very good,” he says, then kisses me again. This time I respond, because he is overwhelming, and because I do want him, regardless of the horrible things he has been doing tonight. I’m aware that this is yet another part of his experiment, but the thought doesn’t seem very relevant. The only thing I worry about is whether he has something awful up his sleeve to throw me off balance again.  
  
He finishes the kiss and says, “Tell me how you feel now.”  
  
“Aroused,” I say. “And paranoid.”  
  
He looks briefly dubious. “That’s not a combination.”  
  
It’s my turn to smile for a change. “Around you it is, Sherlock.”  
  
“I can promise you we are done with the negative emotions, Adriane,” he says as he takes a sample. “There is nothing else outstanding that you should worry about.”  
  
I watch him as he is moving about, my emotions all over the place. I don’t know what to feel anymore after everything that he’s done to me this evening. He’s completely knocked my confidence, and I really don’t know if I should trust anything he tells me tonight.  
  
“I am having some problems believing you,” I say.  
  
He frowns at me a moment, then rolls his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”  
  
He strips, quickly, until he is down to his shorts. I just stare as he comes back to me again, takes my hand and pulls me towards the bed. Then he twirls me round and unceremoniously hooks his leg behind mine, pulling me over. I fall backwards onto the bed, totally surprised, and he follows, sitting astride me with his hands either side of my head.  
  
Even though I can move my arms freely I just lie there staring up at him, stunned.  
  
“Right,” he says. “We are going to stay here, you are going to experience some very positive emotions, I am going to attempt to take some samples, and after that the experiment is finished. Now do you believe me?”  
  
I’m blinking, looking for some words. He’s just too much. “Yes,” I manage in the end, but my voice sounds funny.  
  
He sits back and takes off his shorts. I stay where I am, just watching him, admiring his physique, the way he is moving. Then he slowly lies on top of me, our bodies completely touching, and I can feel him hard against me. I look up at him, briefly wondering how I got here, marvelling at the slightness of him, those incredible eyes. For the very first time this evening my mind is completely calm. I take his face in both my hands and kiss him.  
  
He enters me as we are kissing, and then just stays there, motionless. I let him go, moving my hands down his back, but he remains where he is, just watching me. I wonder how he can stay so emotionally detached, so clinical, when all I want is to lose myself completely. I am getting desperate for him to move.  
  
“Tell me how you feel.”  
  
It is my turn to roll my eyes at him. “Jesus, Sherlock. I don’t… I feel… Hng.” As I try to form the sentence he moves inside me, and any rational thought I might have had evaporates. He fucks me slowly for four, five deep strokes, then stops again.  
  
“’Hng’ is not technically an emotion,” he says. I try to find something, anything sensible to say but fail. He’s playing a game, and I have no mental capacity left to even think straight. I end up just staring at him.  
  
He gives me a quick, dismissive smile, then does the same thing again. Five or six deep strokes, then nothing. I don’t want him to stop, my body is desperately trying to move underneath him. “Rate your arousal,” he says.  
  
This I can just about do. “Nine.”  
  
He looks at me, amused, and says, “Really.” Then he takes first my left, then my right arm and moves them over my head, stretching me. Half his weight is on my arms, and I can’t move at all. Being immobilised takes my arousal to a completely different level.  
  
He fucks me again, slowly, longer this time. My skin feels as if it is electrified, every time he moves against me it sends shocks through my body. I’m starting to lose it, just letting the rhythm take me, unable to think much at all anymore. Then he stops, kisses my throat until he is right at my ear and murmurs, “How about now?”  
  
I’m in no state to answer. All I want is for him to carry on. I am trying to move to get him to move but he is still holding on to me and I am getting nowhere. As if to prove the point he takes both my wrists in one hand, and slowly runs his other hand down my body. “Answer the question,” he whispers.  
  
“Hng. Fuck. Twenty,” I say.  
  
“Good,” he says. “If not very accurate.”  
  
He takes his hand away and reaches across the bed, coming back with the pipette and a sample bottle. In a daze I let him take a sample. He doesn’t even let me go as he transfers it to the bottle, just rests his arm across my wrists so he has both hands free. The fact he is still inside me is driving me to distraction.  
  
He puts the things back across the bed and returns his attention to me, regarding me with amusement as I am struggling underneath him. He seems completely calm, while I am turning into an incoherent aroused mess. I find I have to close my eyes, unable to cope with him any longer.  
  
Still he remains motionless, and now in my own personal darkness I can feel everything, every place where our bodies touch, the stretch and the warmth of him inside me, the weight of his hand on my wrist. I can smell him, and hear him breathe, and at this moment there is nothing else in my world.  
  
“You know I am technically finished for tonight,” his voice comes very close to my ear. “We could just leave it at this.”  
  
I open my eyes and stare at him in disbelief. He’s looking at me with a wicked glint in his eye.  
  
“No,” I say. I’m trying not to sound desperate. I fail.  
  
“Why not?” he says. Just to remind me where he is he shifts his body a little, causing impossible sensations all over my skin and all through the rest of me. I gasp as a shudder runs through my body.  
  
I try to find some words, but I am in no position to demand anything and I doubt that asking nicely would be enough. There is no other option. “Because I am begging you not to. Please, Sherlock.”  
  
He smiles, acknowledging my submission, and says, “Very well.”  
  
He begins to fuck me again, slowly at first, but steadily building up speed. I am swept away by it, nothing left but pure feeling, every part of my body taken over and no thought of anything remaining. At some point he kisses me, and the sensation as the tips of our tongues meet is enough to drive me over the edge. I come while he is holding me down, fucking me deeply and slowly again now, drawing out the orgasm.  
  
It takes some time for the room to come back into focus again. I am aware of Sherlock taking another sample, and I realise that what he said before really was a wind-up. I look at him.  
  
“You were winding me up,” I say.  
  
He shrugs. “It didn’t seem to detract from your enjoyment. In fact it seemed to add to it.”  
  
I think back to what just happened. “You didn’t come,” I say.  
  
“I didn’t have to,” he says, lying back on the bed.  
  
I look him over. He is lying on his back now, looking relaxed, and gorgeous, and surprisingly aroused. I haven’t come down yet, and all I can see is an opportunity not to miss. I sit up, and kiss his chest, and then slowly start making my way down, running my hands along his body as I go.  
  
“Adriane.” There is some warning in his voice, but not enough to make me worry, and I ignore him. If he really doesn’t want me to do this he can just pull away.  
  
When I get down I kiss his shaft, gently, then run my tongue along it. I can taste myself on him. He doesn’t react, only the slowing of his breathing giving me any indication that he is in fact enjoying this. I take it as an encouragement, and I increase the pressure of my tongue on his shaft, then start nibbling him as I make my way all the way up.  
  
He is lying completely motionless. From where I am I can’t see his face, but I have to assume that this is good for him. I am absolutely sure that he would tell me if it wasn’t. When I get to the tip of his shaft I take him into my mouth, running my tongue around his glans as I go down.  
  
He takes a shuddering breath, and I take him deeper, more than encouraged now. I slowly start sucking him, and he begins to move with me. I put my hands on his hips to keep some control of his movements, but he is eager, trying to go deeper, threatening to make me gag. In the end I clear my mind from worry and just go with it, and try to accommodate as much of him as I can, giving him this experience.  
  
We increase the rhythm together, me guiding him through the pressure of my fingers on his hips, occasionally digging my nails in if it gets too much. I can tell it is getting harder for him to control himself, and part of me wants to know what it would be like if he really lost control, while the sensible part of me doesn’t.  
  
I briefly consider pulling away before he comes but I am too far into this, I don’t want to disappoint him. I stay with him as he speeds up, going deeper, no longer taking any notice of my nails digging into him, pushing into my mouth and throat. I can barely breathe as he comes, his hands suddenly in my hair, holding me down. I can only swallow.  
  
He is looking very far away when I sit up, and doesn’t say anything for a long time. He is just looking at the ceiling, lost in thought, and in the end I go to visit the toilet and clean myself up. When I come back into the room and sit down on the bed he looks across to me and says, “Thank you.”  
  
I guess that was a new experience for him. I just say, “It is a privilege, Sherlock.” He looks at me strangely.  
  
There is something that is bothering me, though. “You said some awful things about me before, just to upset me. How much of that was just for effect?”  
  
He frowns, as if I have said something really silly. “None of it. It’s all true.”  
  
“Oh.” I wish I hadn’t asked. I stare at my feet, feeling pretty rotten.  
  
“It bothers you,” he says.  
  
“Well, yes,” I answer. “Of course.” I am surprised he even has to ask.  
  
“Adriane, you are needy, in that you need me, and you have been damaged, and that is why you came to me in the first place. It is why you keep coming back. It is partly what makes you useful. You are overly emotional, and you would be more of a fool than I think you are if you thought otherwise. But it has proven useful to me on more than one occasion, and otherwise does not bother me. You are no less intelligent than all the other people I work with, because from where I am sitting pretty much everyone’s an idiot. The only person who isn’t is one of the most dangerous criminals alive, so it’s not necessarily a recommendation.”  
  
“Oh,” I say again. It doesn’t look so bad now. I notice he hasn’t elaborated on his comment about my sense of style. I guess that might have been asking too much.  
  
He gets up, suddenly, and says, “Food.” I’m not sure what he’s on about for a moment, until I realise that I am also starving. I didn’t eat very well before I came over because of the nerves, and I have no idea how long we have been at this, but suddenly I feel ravenous.  
  
Sherlock orders a takeaway while I get dressed. He doesn’t bother, just putting on some pants and throwing a house coat over his thin frame, but I am acutely aware that John could come home any moment and I would rather be decent. One look at the mirror tells me that I’m not hiding much – my hair looks like I have been out in a gale. I try to make the most of it.  
  
We are in the middle of a Chinese dinner when John returns. His eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling when he enters the kitchen to find us both eating.  
  
“Did he get you to order dinner? Was that part of the experiment?” he asks me, incredulously.  
  
I give him a bemused look, while Sherlock answers for me. “I am actually quite capable, John. You only do all the ordering because you enjoy it.”  
  
John gives him a comedy frown, then grabs a bowl and pulls up a chair. “Any spare?”  
  
When we are finished we move into the lounge. Sherlock picks up his violin and plays, while John writes his blog and I sit on the sofa and listen. I feel totally relaxed here now, for the first time in weeks.  
  
After some time I become vaguely aware that the music has stopped, and am surprised to find Sherlock standing in front of the sofa, pipette in hand. I hadn’t quite drifted off, but I was relaxed nearly to the point of dreaming. I let him take a sample, not sure what I am meant to be feeling.  
  
“I have run out of emotions, Sherlock,” I say.  
  
“Yes,” he says. “Rate your state of relaxation.”  
  
“Oh. Nine and a half,” I answer.  
  
He does a double take. “What happened to the last five percent?”  
  
“I am keeping it back just in case you have anything else up your sleeve,” I say.  
  
He smiles. “Not tonight.”  
  
I am exhausted, so I make my excuses early, settling to sleep in Sherlock’s room. If John is disappointed he doesn’t show it. Sherlock stays up late, if he even sleeps at all. All I know is that he doesn’t come to bed while I am still awake, and isn’t there when I wake up in the morning from a long and dreamless sleep.  
  
When I walk past the kitchen table to the lounge I notice a new bottle has been added to the collection at the top end. I stoop to read the label.  
  
“Asleep. 10.”   
  


\----oooOOOooo----

  


A/N: That's it, boys and girls. Adriane Woodford is now officially retiring until the beginning of Series 3. If you have enjoyed this series please let me know, I value your comments enormously (being needy and overly emotional, and all that).

Thank you for reading!

ps. Yes, those journal articles are real. There are people out there actually doing stuff like this to other people. Although I very much doubt that they generally end up in bed with them.


End file.
